


I've spent my whole life trying to put it into words

by oftirnanog



Series: I'll be a thorn in your side for always [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Everyone Is Alive, F/F, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Multi, Pack Cuddles, Polyamory, Sickfic, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, i'm not even sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 07:46:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2573783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oftirnanog/pseuds/oftirnanog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Allison wakes up slowly, dragged out of sleep by the excruciating pain in her throat that is not unlike swallowing shards of glass.</p>
<p>(Other prominent ships include Allison/Stiles, Scott/Stiles, Allison/Derek as well as Scott/Stiles/Derek and Erica/Boyd/Lydia, but is still very much everyone/everyone)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've spent my whole life trying to put it into words

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even have an explanation for this really except that I realized Stiles and Allison would be the only two of the pack who are actually capable of getting sick and then I obviously needed the pack taking care of them on just such an occasion. Sorry not sorry. (Oh my god it's such tooth-rotting fluff though. You have been warned.)
> 
> Yes, this belongs to the same 'verse as 'When I envision you I think of your sheets'
> 
> Yes, I might write more for this 'verse.
> 
> And yes, that title is from Taylor Swift's 'You Are In Love', what of it?
> 
> ~~P.S. Everyone can calm down now. I removed the ship tags.~~
> 
> ETA: Ship tags are back in a more limited form based on who kisses who on the mouth (except Boyd/Stiles, which is just very obviously shippy in this particular fic) because isn't pointing out the prominent ships kind of the point?

Allison wakes up slowly, dragged out of sleep by the excruciating pain in her throat that is not unlike swallowing shards of glass. Or at least what she imagines swallowing shards of glass must be like. She rolls onto her side and cracks her eyes open, a move she immediately regrets because she aches _everywhere_ —her legs, her back, her neck—and it shoves the throbbing in her shoulders up through the back of her skull. She groans and buries her face in the pillow in an attempt to fall back asleep. But then she has to swallow and is viscerally reminded of what woke her up in the first place. 

She opens her eyes again and makes a pathetic whimpering sound that she’s almost glad no one is around to hear. Still, she kind of wishes Lydia or Scott were still in bed with her because then at least they could bring her a glass of water and some Tylenol. She would shout for someone to bring her some, but just the thought of raising her voice is painful, besides which she is an adult who can handle the flu, even if it does feel like someone is pinning her down by the chest and scraping out the insides of her throat.

So she drags herself out of bed and makes her way to the bathroom where she runs into Scott staring at the closed door with a concerned look on his face. 

“Stiles?” he asks through the door. “Are you okay?”

The only response he gets is a hollow moan followed by the toilet flushing.

“I’m coming in,” Scott announces, and opens the door to find Stiles sitting on the floor hunched over the toilet bowl.

“Oh good,” Allison says, even though every syllable feels like it’s slicing her throat open. “Something to look forward to.” 

Scott turns to look at her and moves his hand from the back of Stiles’ neck to Allison’s forehead.

“You’re both burning up,” he says, forehead creasing even more. Then he brings both hands up to Allison’s throat, gentle fingers pressing to check for swollen glands. “It feels like you swallowed a couple golf balls,” he says.

Allison shakes her head and says, “Razor blades.” 

“Shrapnel,” Stiles adds, sitting back from the toilet. His face is drained of all colour except for the dark purplish bags under his eyes. He looks like Allison feels.

“Open,” Scott says. 

Allison stares at him for a moment before rolling her eyes and obliging, stretching her jaw open so Scott can look inside her throat.

“Probably strep,” he says. “You both need to go to the clinic.”

“I just want to sleep,” Stiles mumbles.

“You can sleep after you get antibiotics,” Scott assures him. “I’d rather you didn’t get scarlet fever.”

“I wasn’t aware we were Victorian maidens,” Stiles says, sarcasm undone by the grimace on his face and the way his voice stilts with pain.

“People still get scarlet fever, Stiles,” Scott says.

“False,” Stiles says.

“I’ve had scarlet fever,” Allison offers because Stiles will keep arguing even if it physically hurts him.

Stiles frowns at her and she shrugs. “High pain tolerance. Didn’t know I was sick until the rash showed up.” She winces and brings a hand up to her throat as though rubbing at it will somehow alleviate the pain. “Not anymore, apparently.”

Scott sighs and reaches into the medicine cabinet for the bottle of Tylenol. “Take these and I’ll drive you to the clinic,” he says, handing them each two pills and a cup of water.

“You have class,” Stiles protests. He eyes the glass of water like it might bite him.

Before Scott can reply, Derek steps into the bathroom.

“What’s going on up here?” he asks. “The pancakes are getting cold.”

Stiles groans, going a little green—a completely reasonable reaction, in Allison’s opinion—and that’s when Derek seems to notice that Stiles is sitting on the floor. He presses his palm to Allison’s forehead because she’s easier to reach and his frown deepens.

“You’re burning up,” he says, and it’s so much a mirror of Scott that Allison would laugh if she didn’t think it would hurt.

“Yeah, I think it’s strep throat,” Scott says, like he’s already a doctor instead of just premed. “And if one of them has it they both do because as much as anyone tells them that sex is not a real study strategy, neither of them listens.”

“It’s a reward system,” Allison argues, admittedly without much conviction. She’s really too sick to defend her and Stiles’ study strategy to these two. 

“You two have been going at it like rabbits lately,” Derek says. There’s not really any judgement in it though and if there were, it would be mitigated by the gentle way he pushes Allison’s hair off her forehead and strokes down the back of her head.

“Midterms,” Stiles insists weakly. It’s only a little pathetic.

“Okay,” Derek says, turning to Scott. “You—go to class. I’ll take them to the doctor.” Then, “You are not a doctor yet,” when Scott opens his mouth to protest. “And I have nowhere else to be today. Now go eat breakfast or you’ll be late.”

Scott clenches his jaw like he wants to argue, but instead huffs before bending down to press a kiss to Stiles’ hair.

“Feel better,” he says, and then moves to Allison, who has repositioned herself to lean against Derek so that he’s holding most her weight with one arm wrapped securely around her waist. Scott kisses her on the temple and says, “I’ll buy popsicles.”

He looks at Derek, who says, “I got this.”

Scott finally smiles. “I know,” he says, and gives Derek a quick peck on the lips before leaving.

By the time they leave the clinic nearly three hours later, prescription finally in hand, Allison is seriously considering the merits of having a spit bucket to avoid swallowing her own saliva. She can also barely keep her eyes open. On the way home she and Stiles opt for slumping against each other in the back seat, which is a bit hot and uncomfortable because they’re both still running fevers, but is also kind of comforting because at least they’re both hot and uncomfortable and feverish together.

When Derek gets them home he makes sure they take their first dose of antibiotics and then climbs into the king size bed with them. He keeps his book within easy reach, but lets Stiles curl up with his head pillowed on his stomach and immediately starts rubbing his hand in soothing circles over his back. Allison snags a pillow and scoots lower on the bed so she can prop herself against Derek’s thigh without knocking her head against Stiles’. Derek’s solid heat would be enough to lull her into sleep, but then he gets a hand into her hair, fingertips massaging at the base of her scalp and…

Allison wakes up in more or less the same position, but finds that Derek has been replaced by Lydia and that her throat feels less like she’s swallowing shards of glass and more like she’s swallowing gravel. It’s an improvement. Stiles is sitting up next to Lydia, reading over her shoulder, a habit she usually hates, but seems to be tolerating.

“Scam,” Stiles says, and it takes Allison a moment to realize that the reason he’s reading over Lydia’s shoulder is to better see the crossword puzzle she’s working on. “Seven down. ‘Bait and switch.’ It’s ‘scam.’”

“Just because you’re sick,” Lydia starts, filling in the answer, “Don’t think I won’t stab you with my pen if you continue to do my crossword puzzle.”

“Spoil sport,” Stiles says, but he rests his head against her shoulder.

“And how are you feeling?” Lydia asks, pushing Allison’s bangs off her forehead and holding her hand there. “You’re fever’s gone too I think.”

“Yeah I’m not as achey,” Allison replies. “Throat’s still sore though.”

“Mmm,” Lydia agrees. “Want something to eat?”

Allison wrinkles her nose. “Not really.” She props herself up on her elbows. “I could go for some tea though.”

“I vote for tea and an Arrested Development marathon,” Stiles says. His voice sounds rough, but there’s a bit more colour in his cheeks.

“That sounds like a plan,” Allison agrees.

Which is how they end up on the couch with Allison curled against Lydia and Stiles sprawled in Allison’s lap in a cozy pile. Except eventually Lydia has to leave for her evening class and whatever respite they were experiencing from their sore throats decides to end. Derek is still around, but there’s really not much he can do for them beyond keeping their water glasses full.

“Oh my god,” Erica says, when she finds them slumped at opposite ends of the couch. “Poor things.” She is, of course, smiling because even if she feels bad for them, she can’t help being a bit gleeful that she never has to worry about getting sick anymore. Allison thinks that’s probably fair enough given Erica’s pre-werewolf medical history, but it doesn’t make her feel any better.

“Fucking smug werewolves,” Stiles grumbles.

“Aw, baby, don’t be mad,” she says. “I’m here to offer scalp massages.”

She nestles herself between them on the centre of the couch. “And Boyd’s heating up that chicken noodle soup he made,” she says. “Who’s first?”

Allison pushes herself into a more upright position and shifts closer to Erica, who turns and immediately buries her fingers in Allison’s hair.

“You’re radiating heat like a werewolf, babe, when’s the last time you took some Tylenol?” Erica asks as she works her fingers over Allison’s scalp.

“Few hours ago,” Allison replies. She lets her eyes fall shut and sighs as Erica falls into an easy rhythmic pattern. It feels ludicrously good. Allison thinks her bones and muscles might be liquefying. 

“Well,” Erica says, sliding her hands up Allison’s neck and over her head to her temples, “When I’m done with this I’ll grab you some more. You feel like you’re running a fever again.”

Allison makes a small defeated noise at the back of her throat. 

“I know,” Erica murmurs.

Boyd comes in about ten minutes later with two bowls of soup and a bottle of Tylenol.

“I heard you might need this,” he says, setting the bottle on the coffee table.

“Thanks,” Erica says, grabbing it and shaking out two pills. “How you holding up there, Batman?” she asks as she hands one to Stiles.

“I’ve been worse,” he says. 

Erica makes a small noise of agreement.

“You’ve been better, too,” Boyd says, settling onto the couch so that Stiles can lean against him.

“Is excessive worrying part of a werewolf’s DNA?” Stiles asks. “It’s just strep throat. I know you guys don’t get sick anymore, but it’s a pretty common human thing to do.”

“Shush and eat your soup,” Erica says.

Stiles rolls his eyes at Allison, who smiles, partially in agreement with him but also because she’s secretly pleased that they worry as much as they do, unnecessary though it may be. She twists as best she can while balancing her soup and drops a kiss at the corner of Erica’s mouth. She grins wider when a flush creeps into Erica’s cheeks because it’s almost impossible to make her blush and Allison’s absurdly pleased she was able to catch her off guard. Erica rolls her eyes and bites at Allison’s shoulder in retaliation, a gentle press of teeth that is more affection than anything else.

“Good soup,” Allison says after taking a mouthful.

“Mmm,” Stiles agrees.

“Thanks,” says Boyd. “My grandmother’s recipe.”

They continue with their Arrested Development marathon and end up in an increasingly tangled pile as the evening progresses. Kira and Isaac both pass through on their way in from class and work, respectively, long enough to check in on Stiles and Allison and to say goodnight. By the time Lydia gets home, Allison is barely awake and Stiles and Erica are both snoring softly. Boyd is trailing his fingers absently over Stiles’ neck and shoulder.

“What are you still doing up?” Lydia asks in a whisper, setting herself on the arm of the couch and rubbing her hand over Allison’s shoulder.

“I didn’t want to wake them,” Scott says, coming in behind her, followed closely by Derek. Allison has a feeling they both spent the entire evening sitting in the kitchen as a way of keeping watch over Stiles and Allison without overtly hovering, because they both know Stiles gets testy when the wolves treat him like he’s “made of fucking fine china or something,” to use a direct quote.

“How are you feeling?” Derek asks, probably for the twentieth time today, but Allison finds she doesn’t mind.

“Just tired mostly,” she says.

“Well, lets get you in a bed then,” he says, reaching out a hand to help her up.

Erica stirs beside her, blinking as she comes to and takes in her surroundings. “Time is it?” she asks.

“Bedtime,” Scott says.

“Okay, dad,” she teases, but she does get off the couch.

Boyd has gently woken Stiles and tugged him into a standing position. Allison can tell he’s resisting the urge to simply scoop Stiles up and carrying him up the stairs bridal style, is determining whether he is tired enough and sick enough to let it happen. He settles for wrapping an arm around Stiles’ waist instead, letting Stiles lean into him as he guides him, half asleep, to the master bedroom.

Allison assumes (correctly) that Derek and Scott will be joining them. It’s the only room with a king size bed and it is _their_ room more than it’s anyone else’s, though Stiles spends considerable time sleeping there too, and most of his clothes are in that closet. Despite their tendency, as a group, to play musical bedrooms, to not really have any room they’d claim as their own, Derek, Scott, and Stiles have more or less claimed this one.

Lydia kisses Allison’s forehead before heading to an empty bedroom and Erica mumbles, “See you in the morning,” before taking Stiles’ place at Boyd’s side, because unless it’s an emergency, Erica is useless when she’s just woken up and sleep deprived. Boyd makes sure that Derek has a secure arm around Stiles and brushes Allison’s shoulder as they follow Lydia.

“Okay,” Scott says, pulling his shirt off and then turning the covers down so Derek can guide Stiles into bed.

Allison crawls in behind him, tucking herself close in solidarity or something, but also because she knows that Scott and Derek will insist on having them in the middle anyway and the truth is, she’s a cuddler, especially when she feels like shit. Sure enough, Scott curls himself behind Allison, face nuzzling into her hair, and drapes an arm across her, resting his hand on Stiles’ hip. The mattress dips a little more as Derek climbs in on the other side of Stiles, facing them, and he lifts Scott’s hand to press a brief kiss to his palm before arranging himself so that Stiles is nestled against his neck and chest, his chin resting on Stiles’ head.

It should probably feel too crowded, bordering on claustrophobic, and in all honesty they’ll probably push away from each other as they overheat throughout the night, and one of them will definitely end up with one of Stiles’ limbs in their face or a wayward elbow jabbed into their side, and if you’d asked Allison a couple years ago she’d have insisted that she could barely share a bed with one person let alone three. But it’s grown on her, this piled together way of sleeping, and she finds she can’t fall asleep without it anymore, without the wayward limbs and excess heat and the steady layered rhythm of everyone breathing. It’s home now.


End file.
